I pushed through the crowd, intent only on getting to her.
“Wow, Mom, you’re wearing as much makeup as a Kardashian,” Caitlin said.
If there had been a sink right there, I would have washed my face, but I had to settle for sucking it up and giving my daughter a hug.
“Maggie thought I needed a makeover. You look amazing, honey.”
She ran a caressing hand over her belly.
“I felt her move today,” she said, excitement dancing in her eyes.
“Her?” I said. This was news.
“They don’t know for sure,” said Ravi.
“Officially we don’t want to know,” corrected Caitlin. “And seriously, all I can worry about is whether the baby has two heads or if its little heart will keep beating.”
“You’re past the danger point,” Ravi said.
“I don’t know if you’re ever past the danger point,” I said.
“You were what, six months pregnant when you had your second miscarriage?” said Caitlin.
“Seven,” I said.
Caitlin was five when that happened, old enough to know that Mommy had a baby in her tummy but now the baby was gone. Old enough to try to comfort me when I was crying.
Ravi shot me a dark look. “The doctor said everything looked fine,” Ravi said.
“I’m sure he’s right,” I hurried to reassure my daughter.
“She,” said Caitlin. “Jeez, Mom, don’t be such a sexist!”
“I’ll make you a plate of fruit and vegetables,” I said. “Let’s find a place for you to sit.”
Ravi took Caitlin’s arm. “We’re going to say hello to Maggie,” he said, firmly steering my daughter away.
I stood there feeling abandoned for only a second before I felt two arms slip around me from behind. I swung around to see the beaming face of my old friend and colleague Kelsey Peters. Kelsey and I had worked together at Empirical Press before she’d moved first to France and then to Hollywood to become a television producer.
“I can’t believe you made it!” I said, pulling her into a hug.
Kelsey was such a strong person, I always forgot how tiny she was; her head barely reached my chin. Now in her midthirties, she looked older, but in the best possible way. When we worked together in New York, she’d favored a tightly laced, ambitious-career-woman look: pencil skirts, pointy high heels, bright red lips, and twice-weekly blowouts. Living in her native California had made her look at once softer and more sophisticated, with her tousled blond hair, flowing embroidered blouse, vintage jeans, lace-up boots, and Gucci bag.
“I had to be here,” she said. “I love the book.”
“Really?” I said, genuinely pleased.
Kelsey was still the best editor I’d ever worked with. She’d edited my first two novels, one a coming-of-age love story and the other a highly fictionalized account of three moms in crisis. The whole time I’d been writing Younger, I could hear her voice in my head urging me to find a fresher metaphor, a more vivid description, a truer feeling.
“Absolutely,” Kelsey said. “I told Mrs. Whitney I wished I’d been the editor.”
Kelsey and I both looked over to where our former boss, Mrs. Whitney, was holding court on the long, low sofa. Beside her sat the white Hermès bag that held her little white dog, Toto, which matched her thick white hair, brushed straight back from her forehead. She was wearing a black-and-white Chanel jacket she’d had since I first worked at Empirical Press in the ’90s.
“As long as you felt okay about your character,” I said.
“Are you kidding? I’ve been going around telling everybody Lindsay is me. What did Josh think?”
“Josh and I haven’t been in touch,” I said stiffly.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I always thought he was a great guy.”
Kelsey had known Josh for almost as long as I had, and had encouraged me from the beginning to get more serious with him, to get married and have babies, not knowing I was fifteen years older than Josh and had already spent a lifetime as a suburban wife and mother.
“I invited him tonight. I thought it was time for us to be friends again.”
“That’s very grown-up of you,” Kelsey said.
“Thank you, but apparently he didn’t agree, because he’s not here.”
“Well, if he shows up, say hi for me. I’m sorry to do this but I’ve got to run. I got last-minute house seats for Sutton Foster’s one-woman show.”
“Oh, that’s amazing. Caitlin took me to see it in December as a combo holiday-birthday present.”
“Do you have time to get together tomorrow to talk about the book? Bemelmans at five?”
Bemelmans Bar at The Carlyle, with the murals painted by the artist who’d created the Madeline books, had always been Kelsey’s and my special place, reserved for celebrating major book deals or mourning long-term breakups or announcing life-changing news. Or, I guess, publishing new books and seeing each other for the first time in more than three years.
“Perfect.”
* * *
There was the sound of a spoon clinking on glass, Kelsey’s cue to duck out of sight. A hush fell over the crowd. Maggie motioned me to her side and began saying nice things about me and my book. I scanned the crowd. Still no sign of Josh. Just as well, I supposed. Maybe he was smarter than me, maintaining the distance that had grown between us.
Judging from the silence and the fact that everyone was staring at me, it was my turn to talk. So I stood there and explained how writing the book had helped me understand a challenging and amazing passage of my life. I thanked people and joked that the afternoon’s beautifying routine had made me look forty-six instead of forty-nine.
And then Josh walked in and all the words flew out of my head. He looked different, his cheeks more angular, his shoulders wider, a new crease between his eyes. And something else I couldn’t pinpoint that transformed him from an overgrown boy to a fully grown man. My stomach dropped into my vagina.
Oh no. Oh no no no no. Getting over him was why I’d spent two years alone on an island in Maine turning into a pillar of salt. Getting over him was why I’d written this highly personal and potentially hugely embarrassing book. Getting over him was why I’d oh so coolly sent him a Paperless Post invitation to this party.
But this did not feel like I was over him.
“So, yeah, I wrote this book,” I said, trying not to look at him, but unable to look anywhere else. “I think maybe you can buy it here.”
Could you? If so, where? It was a big loft. “Or maybe not.”
People were still looking at me, somewhat uncertainly.
“Goodbye,” I said. I knew that wasn’t right. But it did the job: To my enormous relief, everyone went back to talking to one another.
I managed to forget about Josh for a few minutes as people nicely asked me to sign books. But when the last person handed me a book to sign and I looked up to ask their name, it was Josh.
“Hey, thanks for coming,” I said.
Sounding like a somewhat normal human being. A sane, calm person with only a slight quaver in her voice.
“Of course,” he said. “I was really happy you invited me.”
Then we stood there smiling at each other for way too long.
“The book’s awesome,” he said finally.
“Oh, good.” I was sincerely relieved. The lawyers had sent him advance proofs, so I knew he’d read it and officially signed off, but he hadn’t said anything to me. “Is that what you really thought?”
“Are you in the city for a while? I’d love to talk to you about it.”
“I just moved back,” I said.
“Wow,” he said. “Amazing. Are you staying here with Maggie?”
“Until I find a place,” I said.
Which hopefully would be soon. Maggie had expanded to take over two entire floors of the building, but she filled every inch with her art studio and her enormous egg sculptures and her growing family and her army of assistants and d
omestic helpers. She’d given me my own tiny room, but that meant the day nanny and the night nanny had to share.
“My new office is nearby,” he said. “I’d love to show it to you.”
“I’d love to see it,” I said.
The word love was getting thrown around a bit more than made me comfortable. I lifted my hair off my neck, licking my lips and sneaking a look at Josh from under my eyelashes. Feeling awfully glad Maggie had made me leave that top button open.
What the fuck was I doing? I dropped my hair and shook my head. I knew for sure that I did not want Josh back. But I somehow felt compelled to act as if I did.
“Babe.” A beautiful woman, tall, thin, with skin the same tawny shade of brown as her hair and her eyes, glided up—she seemed not to need normal legs—and slung her arm around Josh’s shoulders.
“Oh, hey!” He seemed happy to see her. “This is the famous Liza,” he told her. And then to me, he said, “Liza, this is Zen.”
She stuck out her long, thin, bronze hand. “Josh’s fiancée,” she clarified.
I noticed her ring then. It was a simple platinum band set with an oval emerald, roughly the size of a grape. She pressed herself close to Josh and kissed him on the neck. Was that really necessary?
“I need to go, babe,” she said. “Were you coming or…?”
“Great to see you, Josh,” I said quickly.
Please leave. Please don’t make me stand here feeling both turned on and rejected by you for one more excruciating second.
“I’ll text you about visiting the office,” he said.
“Alrighty,” I said.
Alrighty? What was I, a 1950s bobby-soxer?
I tried again. “Alrighty, then.”
That was worse. I could feel my cheeks blazing.
And then burning even hotter as Josh leaned over and kissed me goodbye. With the touch of his lips, he undid two years of denial and sublimation. Now you have to make me unwant you, Josh. Make me unwant you all over again.
two
The waiter set down two icy gin martinis, straight up, three olives. As if we were members of a synchronized drinking team, Kelsey and I lifted them in a toast.
“Here’s to getting what you want,” Kelsey said.
“Here’s to knowing what you want,” I said.
“I know what I want,” Kelsey said, taking a generous sip. “I want a baby. I just can’t find somebody to impregnate me.”
“Oh, come on. Who wouldn’t want to have babies with you?”
“All the guys in LA who are my age plan to work sixteen hours a day until they’re in their late forties, when they’ll be rich and powerful enough to marry a superhot twenty-two-year-old who’ll have lots of babies and no career of her own,” Kelsey said.
“So who does that leave for you?”
“Guys in their late fifties who’ve already had their families,” she said, “or younger men who think you can help them with their careers.”
We both took long swallows of our drinks.
“Well, who needs a man?” I said. “If you really want to have a baby, have a baby. Look at Maggie and Frankie.”
Maggie had gotten pregnant with her daughter Celia via donor sperm, and then midway through the pregnancy had adopted one-year-old Edie from China. Before Maggie and Frankie met, Frankie had gone off their hormones in order to get pregnant and bear a child—Oliver, who was always called Ollie. Ollie was now seven, Edie six, and Celia five.
“All props to them, but I just don’t think I can handle that,” Kelsey said. “I work all the time, I’m away on shoots for weeks or months, and I can’t imagine having anything like a normal family life without a partner.”
“I get it,” I said. “Josh showed up at the party last night with his gorgeous supermodel fiancée, who I’m sure he’s fixing to have babies with.”
“That sucks,” she said. “What did you do?”
“Felt terrible all night. I mean, I was the one who left him. I left because he wanted kids and I didn’t, so I should be cool with it, right?”
“Are you having second thoughts?”
“Not about having babies, no, that door is nailed shut for me. But I couldn’t help feeling jealous, and I kept flirting with him…”
“You two always had a lot of chemistry,” Kelsey said.
“I was acting like a teenager. And I’m about to be a grandmother.”
“Yeah, yeah, but you’re not dead,” Kelsey said.
“He’s a cute boy,” I admitted, “and maybe he’s the love of my life. But I can’t let myself slide right back into that. It’s time I make a life of my own, get my own place, a new job…”
“A job?” Kelsey looked amused but baffled, as if I had expressed a desire to get a pet lamb, or a tattoo of a hula dancer. “What kind of job?”
“I’m going to see Mrs. Whitney later this week. I’d like to go back and work at Empirical.”
She frowned. “What about writing? That was always your dream.”
“I love writing, but it’s really lonely. I want to work with people again,” I told her. “Plus I can’t make enough money writing novels to live in New York.”
“Why do you want to live in New York?” Kelsey said. “It’s expensive, it’s crowded, it’s fucking freezing.” She gave a little shiver for effect. “Come to LA. The weather’s great and everybody’s got these charming guest houses where you can live for cheap.”
“I’ve got to be near Caitlin now. She’s really anxious about this pregnancy, and I promised her I’d do what I can to help.”
Kelsey leaned forward, eyes shining. “I’ve got something I need to talk with you about,” she said.
I knew that look. It was the look Kelsey used to get when she’d read a short story in an obscure literary journal she was sure could be a brilliant novel, or when she came up with a scheme to win the hottest book auction of the season. The best you could do when Kelsey got that look was hold tight and hope she took you along for the ride.
“I want to turn Younger into a TV show,” she said.
Wow. That was unexpected. Kelsey’s background in publishing meant that most of the TV projects she’d done had been vintage literary specials, adaptations of Jane Austen and Miss Marple.
“That’s really nice of you,” I said carefully, afraid she was trying to help me out but wasn’t really interested in the project, “but isn’t Younger a little… frothy for you?”
“That’s exactly what I love about it,” she said. “It’s light, it’s fun, it’s commercial, and it’s also got a deeper message. Yeah, I’ve been doing these serious period dramas, but I need a big fucking hit.”
“That sounds… amazing,” I said. “But I’m not sure I know what this all means.”
“It doesn’t mean anything right now,” she told me. “I have to make a deal with your agent for the option, which is not going to be a lot of money, I have to warn you: a few thousand dollars. Then I package it and shop it around to find the financing and the clout to get it made.”
“Who will you take it to?” I asked. I had no idea how this worked.
“Networks. Studios. Stars. I didn’t want to tell you this before I was sure, but that’s why I went to see Sutton Foster last night. I talked to her after the show and gave her your book. She already texted me: She loves it.”
“Wow” was all I managed to say. It was as if a rare butterfly had landed on the table between us and I had to be really careful not to crush it. “What do I need to do now?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Just sell me the rights to your brilliant book. I promise I’ll turn it into a show you’ll be proud of.”
I was about to say that of course I’d sell her the rights to my book, that there was no one I’d trust more with it, when I remembered something. Something that could be a problem.
“I have to talk to Mrs. Whitney first,” I said.
Kelsey frowned. “What does Mrs. Whitney have to do with it?”
“We share the film and televi
sion rights. I have one of those contracts.”
“Shit,” Kelsey said. “I forgot about that.”
Mrs. Whitney was famously particular about the books she published being adapted into movies or television shows. She’d had a bad experience years ago, so insisted on sharing the rights with the author. And she usually said no.
“Should I talk to her?” Kelsey said.
“I’ll bring it up when I see her this week.”
“Okay. I’m going back to LA tomorrow,” she said, “but I won’t do anything until I hear from you.”
I picked up the metaphorical butterfly and gently placed it in my purse. I could hear its wings fluttering in there, nearly hear its heart beating, but until I talked with Mrs. Whitney, I wouldn’t be able to let it take flight.
three
On Sunday I went with Caitlin out to Brooklyn to tour open houses. Caitlin and Ravi lived in a one-bedroom apartment and needed to find a bigger place before the baby was born, less than four months from now. Their current bedroom didn’t even fit a dresser, never mind a bassinet, and they ate their meals sitting shoulder to shoulder on a love seat. There was no way they could fit another person into that apartment, even one who weighed less than ten pounds.
Caitlin and I wandered with at least twenty other people around the top floor of a Brooklyn brownstone, reconfigured into a two-bedroom apartment now for sale at $1.2 million. The walls were painted white, the kitchen cupboards shellacked a deep blue, and all the hardware was black. The bathroom was a mix of white subway tile, black hardware, and a black-and-white geometric floor.
Older Page 2